The Father's Wrath

The heavy mahogany doors swung open with a resounding thud, cutting through the sickeningly sweet murmurs surrounding Ophelia. The suffocating atmosphere in the room shifted the second Reginald Ashbourne, the Duke of Pembroke, strode into the hall. His imposing figure cast a long shadow across the polished floorboards. His sharp, commanding gaze swept over the chaotic room, pausing for a fraction of a second on Rosalind before he turned toward the matriarch.

He offered a respectful bow. "Mother."

Eleanor waved a trembling hand, her face pale. "No need for that. Get up."

The moment Reginald straightened, Benedict and Ophelia instantly rushed to greet him. The warmth in their voices dripped with familial devotion.

"Father," they echoed in perfect harmony.

Rosalind did not move. She stood rigid, her posture calm, her expression hollowed out into a dead, detached mask. She looked at the man who shared her blood and let the silence stretch for a heartbeat before her lips parted.

"Duke of Pembroke."

The chillingly formal title hit the room like a sudden blizzard. The frantic whispering around Ophelia instantly froze. The air turned brittle.

Reginald’s thick brows crashed together. He looked at Rosalind as if she were a wild dog that had somehow wandered into his pristine dining room. "What did you call me?"

A dark, dangerous vein throbbed at his temple. His confusion rapidly boiled over into explosive, blinding anger.

Rosalind did not flinch. She kept her eyes lowered, her voice an empty, flat monotone. "Duke of Pembroke."

Smack!

A sharp, deafening slap cracked through the grand hall. The sheer force of Reginald’s heavy hand snapped Rosalind’s head violently to the side. The metallic taste of blood instantly flooded her mouth. The sting burned across her cheek like a lit brand.

"You ungrateful thing!" Reginald roared, his voice shaking the crystal chandelier above. "Three years in the camp, and you still haven't learned a single ounce of humility?"

He took a threatening step forward, his chest heaving. "Calling me 'Duke of Pembroke'? What, are you trying to cut ties with this family? If you still don't know your place, go back to the penal garrison and rot there! We do not need a disgrace like you in this household!"

Clarissa, jolted from her shock, rushed forward. She threw her arms up, standing weakly in front of Rosalind. "Enough! If you have to hit someone, hit me!"

But it was Eleanor who shattered the tension. The old woman pushed herself out of her seat, her frail body trembling with an all-consuming, righteous fury. She hoisted her heavy wooden cane high into the air.

Tears streamed down Eleanor’s wrinkled cheeks. "Do you have any idea what horrors she survived these past three years?" she screamed, her voice cracking with agony. "And the second she returns, you strike her? You might as well take that hand and strike me!"

Eleanor swung the cane down with all her remaining strength, aiming squarely for Reginald's shoulders. Panic erupted. Servants scrambled over each other, diving into the fray to intercept the descending wood. Hands grabbed at the cane, pulling the old woman back, throwing the room into chaotic disarray.

Through it all, Rosalind just stood there. She watched the violent circus unfold with cold, deadened detachment. She tasted the blood on her lip and looked at Clarissa's pathetic, belated attempt to shield her. It was utterly absurd. Clarissa had failed her repeatedly in the past. A few weak words now meant nothing.

Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the noise.

Ophelia stumbled backward. A thin, pathetic trail of blood trickled from a tiny scrape near her temple.

The room went dead silent for a fraction of a second. Then, it erupted into absolute panic.

Reginald’s explosive rage evaporated into sheer terror. He bellowed for the servants, his face pale. "Quick! Call the physician! Get a physician now!"

Benedict hovered frantically over Ophelia, his eyes red and bloodshot with worry. He grabbed her shoulders, his voice shaking as he gently chided her. "Why would you rush in like that? What if it scars? Rosalind can handle it. She is used to pain. But you? You are far too delicate for this. You cannot be hurt like this."

Tears clung heroically to Ophelia's long lashes. She bit her lower lip, her voice a soft, trembling whisper. "I was just scared Father might get hurt... I didn't even think. I just moved."

That fragile confession twisted the knife in Reginald’s chest. The entire family swarmed Ophelia. Maids rushed with clean towels. Benedict pressed a cloth to her minor scrape as if she had suffered a mortal wound.

Unnoticed in the background, Rosalind stood like a ghost. Her cheek was swollen, throbbing, and burning hot from the slap. No one looked at her.

A flicker of cold, dark amusement danced in Rosalind’s eyes. She watched Clarissa. The woman who had not even flinched when Reginald slapped her biological daughter was now panicking as if Ophelia’s life were slipping away.

Reginald finally tore his gaze away from Ophelia’s scratch. He glared at Rosalind, his eyes dripping with deep-seated resentment.

"If it weren't for you, none of this would have happened," he muttered coldly. "Honestly, we never should have brought you back thirteen years ago. We should have left you where you were."

Benedict shot Rosalind a dark look of disapproval, but as his eyes caught the ugly bruising on her pale cheek, he swallowed his harsh words and looked away.

Eleanor pressed her fingers to her temples. Her chest heaved with exhaustion. "Enough. That is enough. All of you, out."

The room cleared. They scurried away, fussing over Ophelia until the heavy doors clicked shut, leaving a hollow silence behind.

Left alone with Rosalind, Eleanor sagged back into her chair. She waved the girl closer. With trembling hands, the old woman gently tipped Rosalind’s chin up and applied a cooling medicinal ointment to the angry red mark.

"Rosalind," Eleanor pleaded, her tears falling onto Rosalind’s wrists. "Do not hate your father. He has a terrible temper. I swear to you, from now on, I will protect you. I will not let anyone hurt you again."

Rosalind looked into those weathered, weeping eyes. A dozen sharp, cynical remarks sat heavy on her tongue. She swallowed the bile down. She forced the corners of her mouth up, offering the frail woman a quiet, comforting smile.

"Of course not," Rosalind replied softly.

Later, Rosalind retreated to the bleak isolation of her own courtyard. The night air was biting. She sat by the unlit hearth, her face still throbbing.

She barely had a moment to breathe when the rusted iron gates creaked open.

"Rosalind, are you asleep?"

Irritation flashed across Rosalind’s face. She gave her maid, Tessa, a subtle nod to unlatch the door.

Clarissa stepped into the dim room. She immediately locked onto Rosalind’s swollen cheek, attempting to play the loving mother flawlessly.

"Does it still hurt?" Clarissa asked, her voice gentle.

Rosalind met her gaze with an impenetrable, icy silence. The dead stare made Clarissa falter. She shifted uncomfortably, realizing how hollow her concern sounded.

"Rosalind," Clarissa hurried on, digging into her silk sleeve. "I brought you some wound medicine from Concord Apothecary. This was formulated by a famous physician. It is the best."

She stepped closer. "The healer has been missing for three years. This medicine is impossible to find now. Use it sparingly. It will fade your bruises in less than a month."

Clarissa reached out, trying to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Rosalind’s ear. "I let you down. I did not protect you when you needed me. If you are angry, blame me. Just... do not take it out on anyone else. From now on, I will treat you right. I promise."

Clarissa gently pressed the small jar into Rosalind’s hand.

Rosalind popped the cork.

It was half empty.

A bitter sensation threatened to pull at Rosalind’s lips. She knew this exact ointment. She knew the texture, the scent, and exactly how many ounces filled a fresh jar. She knew it because she was the missing genius healer of Concord Apothecary. She had formulated it herself.

It was a cheap hand-me-down pass-off. A discarded leftover presented as a grand token of peace. The suffocating irony of it practically choked the air out of the room.

Met with nothing but Rosalind’s chilling silence, a sting of deep disappointment flashed in Clarissa’s eyes. She missed the old Rosalind. She missed the sweet, compliant girl who used to smile and call her Mother.

"Well, I will let you rest," Clarissa said, excusing herself. "I will stop by again tomorrow."

Rosalind stood up, her movements fluid and devoid of emotion. "Take care, Your Grace."

She made no move to see her out. Clarissa turned and walked away, her footsteps heavy with unsaid grievances.

Rosalind watched her go, a faint crease forming between her brows as she thought: 'If not for Eleanor's illness... I wouldn't stay in this house another day.'